


monomyth

by 0plus2equals1



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls III
Genre: Gen, lore and game mechanics shenanigans, taking a metaphor and running away with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:53:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24176953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0plus2equals1/pseuds/0plus2equals1
Summary: An exploration of how Lothric and Lorian came to share a curse, why Lothric decided to let the fire fade, and what happens when a story is not allowed to end.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 32





	monomyth

Lothric settled himself within layers of blankets. His mother tucked the thin sheets up and around his shoulders, a useless guard against a chill that only seemed to come from within. The candlelight flickered and he looked up at her, his expression plaintive. To have her actually visit his chambers was rare, and he felt a twist of sorrow at the fact that he would be falling asleep just as she had the opportunity to see him. But his body demanded things of him as it always did and he felt exhaustion pulling at his limbs. His eyelids grew heavy as he peered up at the hazy figure of his mother.

“A story,” he requested.

With a faint smile, she obliged.

At the dawn of the Age of Fire, the great Lord of Sunlight brought light into the world. When the Age grew old and the fire began to fade, the Lords feared a coming age of a frigid and frightful Dark. So, the great Lord devised a solution. By feeding his own soul to the flame and creating a ward of Light, he banished the Dark, and the Age of Fire was renewed.

It was always the same story. Lothric listened less to the content and more to the cadence of his mother’s voice. She was always steadily reverent when she told the tale, and Lothric found that soothing, but he couldn’t help but wonder if that was the _only_ story she knew.

So, with the blunt curiosity of a child, he asked. “When next we meet again, perhaps… could you tell me a different tale?”

His mother smiled blankly, but her eyes were far away, dulled by the vision of a city that never was quite as golden as it was within any memory. She idly lowered a hand to her swollen belly. “Perhaps,” she replied.

* * *

“You will be leaving?” Lothric asked.

Lorian shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wavering back and forth with pent-up energy. “It won’t be long,” he answered. “And I’m meant to squire. Can you believe it? I’ll be at someone’s beck and call instead of the other way around.”

Lothric ran a hand over the cloth of his robes and flattened out the wrinkles. “Are you frightened?”

“Not unduly,” he answered. “The most dangerous thing we’ll face will be the weather. It’s a purely diplomatic venture. I’ll mostly just be attending to a horse. Keeping ice out of the hooves and all.”

“...Can I ask something of you?” Lothric whispered.

“Of course!” he insisted.

“Will you promise to bring me something when you return? Perhaps… something I have not seen before.”

“A present?” Lorian mused. “I believe I can manage that. And when I get back, I’ll have all sorts of stories to tell about the things I’ve seen. Would you like to hear those, as well?”

“Of course,” Lothric answered, and he smiled.

* * *

The King met with a Priestess.

“As it has been said, it will not be the first son that will link the flame.”

“That’s all? No reason why?”

“That is all that is foretold.”

A pause, a sigh, a sardonic smile. “What’s wrong with the elder? He’s healthy. Vigorous. Already he is growing—”

“Nothing is _wrong_ with him, my Lord.”

“Oh, and nothing is _wrong_ with the younger, either?”

A pause.

“Don’t look at me in that way. I understand that what you witness is unchangeable. But… he is so frail. As his father, how could I not fear for him? How is he to prove himself in a world that would see him dead the moment he ventures beyond his holy swaddling?”

There was no response.

“Perhaps he will merely need… assistance. Yes. The guidance of his father as he grows. The company of scholars, as well. If we cannot strengthen his body, then at the least we can develop his mind. Surely that would make him more fit to kindle the flame.” A tired laugh. “And such wording you cling to. All you know is that it will _not_ be the eldest son?”

“Indeed.”

Another laugh. “Well. This is a royal line of rule and ritual followers, is it not? I am glad, then, that the rules have room for wriggling.”

* * *

The High Priestess had spoken of prophecy and fate; once that was recorded, there wasn’t much left for her to do aside from attempt to answer the ever-more-complicated questions of the scholars and the king. But her heart was tender for the frail infant prince she had foreseen, and so she stayed, taking on the role of wetnurse. When the Queen gave birth for the last time and quietly left, as gracious in her abandonment as she was in anything else, Emma did not presume to fill her role for the young prince, but she did act as a gentle mentor.

Lothric sat up and braced his back against the headboard of his bed. He adjusted a heavily furred stole around his shoulders. At times even the soft fur could irritate his skin, accustomed as he was to his blessed robes, but it had been a gift from far away and still smelled of a strange and foreign cold, and so he held it nonetheless.

“The history of blasphemy is a dark one, indeed,” Emma said carefully. “And you are a saint.” She didn’t dare say _are you sure about this?_ but the question was implicit, hanging over them both as a muffling silence.

“It is a part of history, and my Lord Father insists that I am to know my histories,” Lothric replied. When Emma still looked concerned, he smiled. “I know now not to stand too quickly, or to sip of water that is too cold, or to eat of food that disagrees with me. That is only because I have fallen, or caught a chill, or discovered that some meals turn my stomach. If I am to be what I am, then I should know of sin so that I can avoid it. Don’t you agree?”

“You needn’t _seek_ sainthood,” Emma said, but Lothric could tell by her tone that she had given in. “Your soul is already soaked in the Light.” She cleared her throat and shifted uncomfortably before continuing. “An early blasphemy was made with the best of intentions. When the fire began to fade, a powerful witch used her own soul in an attempt to fashion a replacement. But the fire she created was not one of Light, but instead one of a corruptive and consuming Chaos. It was from that Chaos that demonkind emerged.”

“Demonkind,” Lothric mused. The Chaos flame corrupted its surroundings, be it the landscape, the people, or even the belongings they carried with them. From what he had heard, demons were beings of animal want, content to roam and destroy and eat whatever caught their fancy. In a twisted mockery of the struggle of the Lords above, they could even sacrifice themselves to rekindle their blasphemous flame. But they were not always anathema to the Lords; it was better to instead see lesser demons as carefully controlled forces of nature. Much like one could dam a river to harness its power, a demon could be directed and given territory to prowl, or basic commands to follow. Of course, the ones that grew _too_ powerful were still a threat to the sovereignty of the Lords, and so they were dealt with accordingly.

“That was a desperate blasphemy, done in the hopes of extending the Age of Fire, but it was instead the Lord of Light’s sacrifice that succeeded in linking the flame,” Emma continued, and Lothric slumped back against the headboard.

“The same story,” he said to himself, and when Emma gave him an inquisitive look he frowned. “Do you know another?”

“Another blasphemy?” she said quietly as she lifted a hand to her mouth. “The scholars spoke of…” She pursed her lips and clasped her hands together before letting them rest in her lap. “It was one much like the first, and yet the intentions were far fouler. These witches set out with the intent of making another flame that could corrupt and impart darkness upon all that observed it. As long as they had light to make revelry in, they cared not for the consequences. The Profaned Flame burns unending, and yet it provides no life, and its light is no more than a hideous trick.” She shivered and looked away. “The giant Yhorm, called a fool by many for his attempt at kinghood, linked the flame in the hopes that the strength of its brightness would snuff out the Profaned Flame. That was when his foolishness was truly proven. Fire fell upon Yhorm’s kingdom and incinerated every last human. He may be a Lord of Cinder, but he only holds dominion over a civilization’s grave.”

Lothric leaned forward, his face even paler than its usual bloodlessness and his eyes opened wide, and Emma watched him warily. 

“He linked the flame… incorrectly?” he asked.

“In a sense,” Emma answered, and she picked her words with care. “The fire was renewed. That, at least, was true.” She sighed and leaned back. “A giant has might, but nothing akin to the strength of a soul like that of the Lord of Sunlight. Because of this, Yhorm underwent many trials to prove that he had the right to link the flame. He _is_ a Lord of Cinder, and not a failure of ash. But the linking still had consequences. Perhaps it was the mere fact that he had _seen_ the Profaned Flame that doomed his efforts so.”

Lothric picked at a loose thread that had wriggled out of the seam of his robes. “You must undergo trials to prove that you may link the flame, lest you merely burn to ash,” he stated.

Emma nodded slowly. “Of course. You know of the graves that encircle this very kingdom. There is no need for countless unproven undead to throw themselves to the fire. Ending that futile struggle is why your royalty is as revered as it is.” She reached forward and placed a gentle hand upon Lothric’s thin arm. “You are to be this kingdom’s champion. With your purity and strength, you will prevent the suffering of thousands. You will be a Lord.”

He lifted his own hand and placed it over hers. “What trials shall I face?”

She glanced up at the sword she had blessed for him before he had even been born, a thin layer of dust resting upon the platinum.

When Emma could not answer, he gently pushed her hand away.

* * *

The King met with a Scholar.

“The child was--the child _was--_ ”

“Perhaps we overestimated the extent of your…” The voice trailed off.

“-- _cannot_ be weaker than the last. Tell me, o scholar, with your boundless intelligence, your endless depths of knowledge, _tell me_ who is to take the throne when I am naught but an aged husk, my eldest has his strength wrung from him, that saintly wretch is no more than ash, and _this_ one cannot seem to--”

“We could attempt again, with--”

“With _whom_? What derelict goddess have you grasped at now? The only mother strong enough to bear such a child will not do so again. We will not find another.”

“Then we must wait and see. My Lord, forgive my directness, but despite our best efforts, none of us have ever _seen_ an infant of this kind before. This initial weakness may be no more than the precursor to a period of growth.”

A sigh that became a growl. “That certainly hasn’t been the case with the son that came before.” A pause. ”Did her bloodline not have another crossbreed in ages past? Is that not the tale of that first world within a painting?” Another pause. “If that is truly so, then there must be… what balance of blood could be found to avoid this degenerative slide into frailty? Perhaps if I were to...”

“We will discuss this further, my Lord, and you will be informed of what insights come to us. And...your mention of the painting is fortuitous. Perhaps the perspective of one who was once an outsider…”

* * *

The weather that day was gentle enough to go outside. When Lothric grew too sore to walk, he could sit in an ornate wheeled seat devised by one of the scholars and direct his attendants to simply push him to where he wanted to go. Most of his attendants were stoic and hushed, but a few managed to fuss over him, albeit reverently. The sunlight could redden his skin and lead to painful stinging, so he was laden with gauzy cloth stitched thick with blessings; the slightest changes in temperature or a shift in the air could instigate a splitting headache, so he had been layered in veils.

But Lothric was more than willing to tolerate being swaddled if it meant he could watch the knights in training. He peered down from his perch upon the upper landing and tried to spot his brother. It wasn’t too difficult to do; Lorian was holding his own in a spar against two opponents.

Lothric sat and watched; a few attendants tittered as they watched the drama unfold below. Swords clashed and bodies struggled. One man fell to the dirt, while another collapsed to his knees, his chest heaving. The bloodless combat ended, the partners switched out, and the dance was renewed. Lorian fought and found victory unerringly again and again, even as exhaustion turned his limbs to lead and the sun began to hang low in the sky.

A hush fell over Lothric’s companions and he twisted in his seat, fighting against the blinding curtains of his veils.

“A surprise to see you outside, my son,” Oceiros stated. “A pleasant one, even.”

“Lord Father.” Lothric had to dip his head deeply to make his bow clear. The attendants all copied the gesture.

Oceiros shifted his gaze out towards the training field, then brought it back to fix a commanding glare upon the attendants. “Do you intend to smother the prince in both cloth _and_ attention? Leave us.”

They scattered. Oceiros gripped at the back of the wheeled chair. “Well? Where shall we go?”

“...I was watching the knights,” Lothric said carefully.

“I’m fully aware,” Oceiros replied. “But you should be free of distraction. Where shall we go?”

Of course. Any tender gesture from the king came at a cost, and the cost was usually picking his brain to see what progress his tutors had made. 

“Towards the garden,” Lothric finally answered, and Oceiros smiled faintly and began to push.

“I actually had a few queries for you, Lord Father,” Lothric said before the king began his quizzing. 

Oceiros quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? What is there to ask of me that your tutors could not tell you?” His expression darkened. “Are they failing you? We could procure different ones. Wiser ones. The Priestess selected the ones she did because they were softer in their instruction than the others. But perhaps now you have grown past the need for such--”

“My tutors are teaching me well,” Lothric quickly said, wincing at the need to interrupt but knowing that if he did not, the opportunity to get a word in edgewise would be completely lost. “I merely wanted your perspective on a piece of history.”

Oceiros let out a hum, low and thoughtful. “Fine. Ask. But you cannot waylay _my_ questions forever.”

“The second time the fire was linked,” Lothric began. “An Undead was chosen and tested, yes? I know that the tests were to prove that they would not simply char to ash upon entering the Kiln, but…”

“The bells, of course, and gathering the souls of Lords long gone to fill the Lordvessel,” Oceiros stated. “What is it that you are curious about?”

Lothric fell silent. For once, Oceiros fell silent, as well. The wheels of the chair creaked to a stop.

“Must we send Lorian away again?” Lothric asked, his voice faint. 

“He desires to be well versed in combat,” Oceiros answered. “So, yes.” He frowned. “It isn’t as if he won’t be returning. Don’t be so morose.”

“If I am to be a champion…”

“Then you must be entirely dedicated to your studies,” Oceiros said. “There is more than one kind of strength. Surely I have made this clear to you. The kingdom expects you to master knowledge, not to lead them into battle, and I do believe they love you all the more for it. This is to be an age of peace and of a heightening of the mind. And does a book not burn well?” He leaned forward over the back of the chair. “You are to hone your thoughts as you would any other blade. Your studies will make you sharp.”

“...My studies tire me,” Lothric whispered, and though he knew that any sign of petulance would send his father into a rage, he could not help but admit it.

“Tell me, foretold champion, beloved little saint of blankets, what _doesn’t_ tire you?” Oceiros said, his tone acidic and cold.

Lothric did not deign to respond.

“Would you prefer to be a champion of the body?” Oceiros continued. “Is that what you wish? We may start your training now. If I were to leave you here,” he said, and he gestured a pale arm towards the dim surroundings of the garden, “how long do you think it would take for you to crawl back to your cradle? Shall that be your first trial?”

“Father--”

“Is that not what you want? Is this not your chance to emerge from this-- this _chrysalis_ ,” he spat, and he tugged at the veils. “To finally grow beyond this initial weakness?”

“Forgive me, Lord Father,” Lothric stated. “What I said was foolish. I know that I must be diligent. And I think… you are right. My education must be more rigorous. Would you like to select tutors to replace the ones dear Emma had chosen?”

Oceiros tapped sharp nails against the back of the wheelchair. “Yes,” he said. “I think I would.”

* * *

Lorian leaned against the edge of the bed and smiled.

“How long?” Lothric asked, even though he had already asked countless times.

“The moon will wax full thrice,” Lorian quoted. “So, not too terribly long. And when I come back, I’ll have a gift to give you and stories to tell.” He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially. “Apparently, my first task is to master archery on horseback. Won’t that be strange? Our kingdom is too damn vertical for many equestrian pursuits. But to be out in a vast and open field… I’ll almost miss the cliffs.”

Lothric smiled. “What else will you learn?”

Lorian pouted thoughtfully. “There is a sword master there that has experience with Eastern blades. They’re too light for my liking, but if I am ever caught in an encounter where all that is at hand is an uchigatana… well, I’d like to not cut my own limbs off by mistake.” He pantomimed slicing at his own shoulder. 

Lothric’s smile faltered.

“I jest, of course. My armor will be more than enough to keep me whole. And it is _new_ armor. I’m still getting taller. The last breastplate could hardly cover my ribs,” Lorian complained lightly.

Lothric hummed, and the sound was low and despondent. “What gift shall you bring me?”

“I’ve plenty of time to decide on one, but you’ve petted that bit of fur nearly down to the leather. Would you like another one?”

“Something new,” Lothric insisted, and he ran a hand over the furred stole. “Not another of the same. I appreciate any gift you will bring me with all of my heart, as long as it is something new.”

“Picky,” Lorian teased, but his expression grew thoughtful. “But I will keep it in mind. I’m sure that I will find something worthy of your appreciation.”

* * *

The King met with a Knight.

“And the Abyss Watchers could link it together because--”

“They shared a soul by sharing blood, yes.”

“And the flame perceived them as _one_?”

“If anything, it perceived them as their sacred wolf.”

A thoughtful pause. “So there is precedent.”

“Yes.”

“This is what I had expected,” Oceiros stated, “but to say that it was what I had hoped for...”

“You truly doubt that he could link the flame on his own?”

“Do _you_ believe that he can?”

There was no response.

“You are a knight, are you not? You even spent some time in the Legion. You know of strength. Do you sense strength in Lothric? Or do you sense strength in Lorian? You needn’t worry about blaspheming. Speak your mind.”

“...As we’ve been told, strength comes in many forms. Prince Lorian shall make a fine warrior, but Prince Lothric is a font of spiritual strength, and it is that purity that shall envigor the flame--”

A dismissive grunt came from the king and he waved a spindly hand. The knight fell silent.

* * *

Lothric met his new tutor. He _was_ harsh, and more demanding than the previous ones, and yet there was some quality to him that kept the lectures engaging, even when the miracles discussed always circled back to the eternal sunlight. That was a topic that Lothric couldn’t help but find repetitive, given he had been wearing a prayer cloth embroidered with them for all his life.

Something about the scholar seemed strange and alluring, like a foreign firelight glimpsed moving around a corner, asking to be followed and yet unknown in intent. Lothric may have been sheltered, but he knew ambition when he saw it, and he wondered what exactly the scholar had done to obtain his new role.

Lothric also couldn’t help but appreciate when the scholar dropped all pretenses of decorum and spoke to the sainted prince as if he were any other student. It was refreshing compared to the usual reverence, and while the scholar was tough he never descended to the venomous insults that Oceiros tended to fall back upon. At times, he even brought in an odd little sense of humor that entertained Lothric endlessly, his comments verging upon blasphemy but never quite crossing the line.

Lothric knew that the scholar was trying to worm his way into his heart with this carefully maintained performance, and he let him, for he had his own selfish desires to follow.

“You are from a strange place,” Lothric said one day as the lesson came to a close. He lifted his spindly hand and pulled at his stole, pressing his nose against the thinned and dull fur. “You smell cold, much like this.”

“Your oversensitivity makes you observant,” Sulyvahn replied. “I’ll accept the comparison as long as I don’t make you sneeze, as that fur seems wont to do.”

“I was wondering if you would indulge me just this once,” Lothric said with a smile. “You are very wise and know many things that I do not. Do you know of a story that I have not heard?”

Sulyvahn laced his fingers together. “A story? Are you going to bed already?”

“No,” Lothric answered. “I have merely grown tired of the ones I’ve already been told. My brother sometimes tells me tales of his adventures, but he is away. I thought perhaps you would know of a new one.”

Sulyvahn sat and thought. He was silent for so long that Lothric tilted his head and peered at him inquisitively.

“All stories are a part of history, and history is but one long story. And there is only one story,” Sulyvahn stated, “because we will not let it end.” He peered down at Lothric. “Is _that_ the story you tire of?”

Lothric leaned forward, ignoring the tautness of his skin along his spine and the soreness of his ribcage. He was drawn in as ever by the careful dance the scholar did around the unforgivably profane.

“I _do_ know of another story,” Sulyvahn added, “but I will not tell it to you today.”

* * *

“You’ve returned,” Lothric said happily.

“And in one piece,” Lorian replied with a wide grin. “I brought you something new.” He reached into his satchel and retrieved a richly red fruit.

“What is it?” Lothric asked.

“A fruit,” Lorian replied. “Goodness, have those scholars taught you so much that the fundamentals fell out your ears?”

“I know it’s a fruit,” Lothric said with a laugh. “But what kind?”

“A pomegranate,” Lorian answered. “There are hundreds of little seeds inside, like crystals in a geode. You can pick them out and eat them. They’re tart but sweet all at once.”

“This is a wonderful gift,” Lothric said as he held the pomegranate and idly pressed a nail against the outer flesh. “Thank you.”

“I have new stories for you, as well,” Lorian added. “Of the sword master, and his many eccentricities.”

Lothric smiled and nestled himself back against the pile of pillows.

* * *

“What is this?” Sulyvahn asked, and he rolled the pomegranate between his palms. “Something new?”

“Yes,” Lothric said, and his expression was close to beaming. “Lorian brought it to me.”

Sulyvahn was silent as he passed the fruit from one hand to the other. Lothric peered at him inquisitively.

“Will you eat it?” Sulyvahn asked. 

“I plan to,” Lothric replied, an odd guilt entering his tone. “Soon.”

Sulyvahn strode over to the wall and placed the pomegranate upon a high shelf, well out of Lothric’s reach. 

Lothric felt a twinge in his heart, an anxious shiver up his neck. The weakness in his limbs was sore and insistent. He could easily retrieve the fruit with many kinds of blessings, but it was not like Sulyvahn to test him in this way.

“This is not to be cruel to you,” Sulyvahn stated. “Nor do I want you to prove your knowledge to me by magicking it back into your grasp. I am doing this because I am telling you a new story.”

Lothric leaned back and watched the scholar closely.

“You were given a gift, and you cherish it, and you are loath to let it disappear out of a fear of your life being emptier for it,” Sulyvahn stated. “Would it not be nice to preserve such a thing so that you may gaze upon it forever, and keep the memory of its beauty fresh within your heart? Surely no cost would be too high to maintain such happiness for an eternity--or even just a few ages longer.”

Lothric frowned and shivered minutely.

“No? Then you see this gift for what it is. It is meant to be enjoyed, and for it to be enjoyed, it must be consumed.” Sulyvahn crossed his arms. “Let it remain upon this shelf and you will see what happens when even the most blessed gift overstays its welcome.”

* * *

The King met with a Hunter.

“Lorian is to face his first challenge,” Oceiros stated. “To defeat a stray demon and obtain its soul. He is to prove his mettle, and I have every faith that he will do so in a glorious combat, and yet…”

“He will be far from home, and surrounded by enemies. I understand. He has his own battles to fight, but he need not fight _every_ one. I would be honored to act as his guard.”

“He must survive this challenge, and another, and another, and so on, and so forth.” His tone grew acidic. “All to sate…all because the _weakness_...” He fell silent.

“...my Lord?”

Oceiros spat. 

* * *

“Lorian must leave _again_?” Lothric asked, and he tried to keep any pleading from his tone.

“He is a warrior, is he not?” Oceiros replied. He sniffed, frowned, and then furrowed his eyebrows.

Lothric clasped his hands together tightly. “He is our defender. Why not let him defend? Why send him out to fight another stray demon that is merely patrolling an uninhabited scrap of a mountain? It has not hurt anyone, but it could hurt him. Why send him into danger in this way?”

“Are you _pitying_ the demon?” Oceiros asked. “A saint cannot care for a living blasphemy.”

“I care for you,” Lothric said quietly.

Oceiros froze.

“If I am to know my history so that I may follow in the footsteps of the Lord of Light,” Lothric said, and while he began softly a growing conviction strengthened his words, “then I know that the ancient dragons were his enemies, and he wished to destroy them. All but one of them, but that was upon the condition that he betray his brethren--”

“You do not understand what you are speaking of. Be silent,” Oceiros hissed.

“And when the first hybrid of dragon and Lord was born, it was locked away within a painting, because its power was antithetical to that of the Lords--it was another living blasphemy, worse even than demonkind, because demonkind were at least allowed to live beneath the sun--”

“ _Silence_.”

“And I _know_ , for it is all too obvious--that you sought our mother because of it, knowing that she _could_ birth such a thing, but if you yourself had to pass along the royal bloodline then you must supplement yourself with the other blood that you desired so--did you ever tell her of your plans? Was she surprised to find faint scales upon my skin? Or could she see the changes in you already, and knew what was to come--”

Oceiros gripped him by the shoulders. “Quiet yourself now, you damnable wretch, you do not understand--it was _not_ a blasphemy, it was the only way to bring _strength_ into this rotting lineage--”

“Am I not a saint? Is my soul not soaked in the Light? Am I not filled with love for every living being so that I may burn all the brighter, all for them?” Lothric’s gaze was bright yet distant, nearing delirium. “May I not have love for every demon? May I not have love for even you, after all you have done?” He smiled beatifically. “Do you not love me?”

Oceiros scowled, sniffed again, and glanced about the room. “Are you still a child? That is a child’s concern.”

“If not me, then do you love Lorian? If you do, _why send him away_?” Lothric asked as he smiled blankly. “You have never once believed in me, but you have always believed in him. Why force him into danger?”

“A child’s concern,” Oceiros said again, and he shook his head dismissively. “And he is not _forced_.” After another look around the room, he lifted a sleeve to his nose and scowled. “And _what_ is that smell?”

Lothric leaned back against his pillows and was silent.

“What are you hiding?” Oceiros paced around the room, the curvature of his spine betraying an unnatural hunch. “What have you done?” He swept clawed fingers over the topmost shelves, then went still when his hand brushed against something soft. When he pressed a nail against it, it crumbled. A wave of revulsion traveled from his head to his heel. He grasped a handful of whatever it was and pulled it down. Oceiros glared down at a mass of glistening rot and fuzzy mold and frowned in incomprehension. “What is this?”

“A blessed gift that overstayed its welcome,” Lothric answered. “A story that should have had a proper end.” He closed his eyes. “And once, a pomegranate.”

* * *

Oceiros raged, and it was the scholar that had wormed his way closest to his heart that comforted him.

“I have always seen a weakness in him,” Oceiros wailed, “but I feared that it would merely leave him ash, not that he… not that he would fail before ever entering the Kiln, not that doubt would rot away his conviction, the very purpose I have instilled in him since before he could _speak_ \--”

“Perhaps it is merely his youth,” Sulyvahn replied. “Even little Lords go through a rebellious phase.”

Oceiros dug sharp nails against his own palms. “He could not have devised this betrayal on his own. It simply isn’t in him. Which of his attendants or tutors or wet nurses or any other damnable cohort decided to corrupt him--was it you, dear Scholar? You, who have been the backbone of our archives for so long? You, who instructs him nearly every day? You, who have been audience to the _profane_?” There was a hiss to his voice, predatory and low, but Sulyvahn was not fazed.

“You have always seen a weakness in him because you see _yourself_ in him, my Lord,” Sulyvahn said, and the honorific was so ingratiating it verged upon jest.

This was a gamble; Oceiros seemed likely to begin snapping his jaws at the next thing that disturbed him. But Sulyvahn knew that the perfect window of opportunity was now, in the time Oceiros was using to stare at him almost helplessly, his own words lost to him as he labored to breathe in, then out.

“You feared that your weaknesses, your doubts, would be passed along to your heirs,” Sulyvahn said, his tone kept kind. “You know the history. You know that the fire fades even with the most spectacular of kindling. That the same story is retold, and that more meaning is lost with each telling.” He sighed. “You are a righteous king, and so you kept _some_ faith with the flame, but who could fault you for developing a contingency reserve? If the fire _did_ fade, if the frightful dark arrived, then what of your kingdom would remain? What could survive an age of Dark if it failed to sustain the Light? Well, why not look to those who lived before the Light even arrived? Children with the blood of a dragon would surely be able to survive such a tumultuous change.”

Oceiros’s breath rattled from his cavernous chest. Sulyvahn set a steadying hand upon his shoulder. “But even so, Lothric is a kingdom known for linking the flame, and every Pillar expects it to be done. The Priestess insists that it will not be the first son that fulfills this sacred duty. But for the second to be so weak, and then the third…” He leaned down, and his voice was soft with affected compassion. “The flame asks so much of you, makes you resort to such unspeakable things to keep it alive. But you are not to blame,” he whispered.

Oceiros pressed his face into his palms.

“You will fulfill your royal duty by sacrificing two sons,” Sulyvahn said. “Close your heart against them, if you have not already, as it will lessen the pain. But you needn’t harm the third. Let it grow as slowly as it must and prepare it for a world yet to come. With that heir, surely you will bring your kingdom prosperity.” He tapped a finger to his chin. “And as for a true crossbreed… there are rumors that may interest you, of a distant remnant sister to the Darkmoon, though the stories are sparse and unclear…”

* * *

“Emma, of anyone, you know of my curse the best,” Lothric said. “Of my weaknesses, of the failures of my spirit, of my fears. Please, tell me. If I am to link the fire, if I am to be a champion, what shall be my trial? How am I to face it?”

Emma smiled, but it was weak and wavering. “You’re already a saint, dear heart. You needn’t have a trial.”

“That is a lie,” he exclaimed. “It must be. It has never been that way, not for any champion. I have nothing to claim except the fate I was born with. That cannot be enough.” He gulped down a breath. “If I am to open the path to the Kiln, then I must fill a Lordvessel, and for that I need the strength of many souls, but if I am to sit and study and merely pretend to be _pure_ when I am not, then there is no way for me to--”

“Do not doubt, and do not weep,” Emma said softly, and she clasped her small and wrinkled hands over his own. “If you do, my heart will surely break.”

“Then tell me the truth,” he insisted.

She held his hands in silence for a long time before speaking.

“The flame burns away everything,” she said quietly. “Your love, your hate, your hope, your fear. It will consume, and you must give to it before you even first glimpse the fire. You must abandon all that you care for, all that you know. That is how you will open the path to the Kiln.”

* * *

“You’re leaving again,” Lothric said.

Lorian nodded. “All these outings where we have challenged demons… this is the first a demon has decided to challenge us back. I cannot turn down a duel with the Demon Prince. Perhaps this final defeat will end demonkind forever.” He looked away. “What a feat to have to my name. Ending an ancient blasphemy.”

“Promise me,” Lothric said, and his tone was desperate. “Promise me you will return with a gift, and a story, and that you will _return_.”

Lorian smiled. “I will. I promise.”

* * *

Within the shrine, a firekeeper stood with resolute calm as Oceiros gripped the edges of a carved stone bowl.

“Why is it not enough?” he asked, and he nearly spat into the Lordvessel, which was writhing with the souls of demons. “Why?”

Lorian, his sword and armor scorched coal-black, sat upon the ground. “I cannot link the fire,” he said with a shrug. “That’s what was foretold. No need to upset yourself so.”

“But _you_ are a champion,” Oceiros insisted. “You’ve proven your strength. What more does it want? What more _could_ it want?”

“A champion,” Lorian mused. “Am I?”

“You are,” Oceiros wailed.

Lorian frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t believe that I am,” he said. “My path has always been easy for me. I’ve quite the knack for defeating demons. I can hardly remember when last I struggled.” He gave Oceiros a look that may have been pity. “Do you think my brother _likes_ studying the Light, day after day, keeping after it as doggedly as he does? Have you not noticed how quickly he tires of the same things? And yet, he perseveres. Because you asked him to, and because the kingdom asked him to. Do you not recognize that?”

“He hasn’t the strength for this,” Oceiros groaned. “I know it. I know his weakness. He will be no more than ash. You have to… you _must..._ ”

Lorian leaned back and sighed. “I’ve always been willing to share his curse,” he said quietly. “If he must take my strength, then I will give it. If there is no one to tell my stories to,” he added with a faint smile, “then I see no point in staying alone. He will not be ash. If he wants, he will be a Lord. And I will help him get there.”

* * *

“Lorian has returned,” Emma stated. “You are to meet him and your father at Firelink Shrine.”

“...Firelink?” Lothric said. “Today?” he asked, though he knew the question was meaningless.

From there, it was a whirlwind--prayer, anointment, being shuffled from room to room, outpourings of love, of reverence, of hope, and he felt as if the Light were truly in him.

He was surprised when Sulyvahn pulled him aside and held up a quill and parchment. “One last quiz,” the scholar insisted. “To ensure that you are prepared for your duty. Tell me, what is the function of the Lordvessel?”

Lothric closed his eyes. “To collect souls and open the path to the Kiln.”

Sulyvahn leaned forward. “And?”

Lothric pursed his lips, his heart too strained to tell if his question was serious or if it was the precursor to some new joke. “And?”

“Those who obtain and use a Lordvessel may freely travel from bonfire to bonfire as they wish,” Sulyvahn stated. “That is a little quirk of its blessings.”

Lothric hummed in thought. “You’ve taught me something new. I appreciate it as a parting gift.”

* * *

Lothric stared at the firekeeper.

How many times had she seen this same drama played out before? How many times had her sisters done so before her?

And had it ever been quite like this?

“He was willing,” Oceiros stated. “He drank of his own volition. He will feel no pain. But this is the trial that you have asked for. You must abandon your heart and take his strength for yourself. Then, your purity will truly make you a Lord.”

Lorian lay on the ground in peaceful repose, his breath ever so faint, but it was still there.

Lothric twisted his hands around the hilt of the platinum sword that had hung upon his wall, unused, for all his life. His stillness must have been misinterpreted as hesitation, as Oceiros leaned forward, the corners of his mouth curling back, his pallid skin sheened with sweat.

“You _must_ ,” he hissed. “If we share the same weakness-- and the same strength-- then you must. You can do as I have.”

Lothric watched him warily.

“And if you won’t,” he hissed, “then as your father-- I will. I will do it for you. And it will be for naught, and you will surely turn to ash, for you will have failed your one and only trial. And I will have lost two sons for nothing.”

“I will do what is right for my kingdom,” Lothric said, and he knelt at his brother’s side. He placed a steady hand upon the charred breastplate. “Is this your gift?” he asked quietly. “You are not new to me, but I cherish it all the same.”

The sword pierced through and Oceiros made a sound, something more keening and bestial than human, and he turned away.

Lorian’s soul shone brightly, strengthened as it was by the defeat of demons, as it coalesced and flowed into the Lordvessel. Lothric could sense the air shifting around him--the shrine unfolding, the center of all things drawing near, the path to the Kiln growing clear, and he felt the strength of the sacrifice invigorating him, the soul becoming one with his own--

But he had not studied countless hours away for naught.

The path was open, and Oceiros was gone. Even the firekeeper was nowhere to be seen. He placed both hands upon his brother’s shoulders.

“We will share this curse,” Lothric whispered. “And some of my pain may become yours. For that, I am sorry. Perhaps my soul is truly too weak to do what the flame asks of me. I am sorry to give that weakness to you.”

At this, he finally felt trepidation; his fingers trembled as he traced the shapes, as he remembered things found in the marginalia, in whispers, in pieces he had to puzzle together, as the unnatural transposition of souls was an art named forbidden by those who could not master it.

His strengthened soul split back into two. Lorian inhaled, his first breath ragged and uneven.

“You ended one ancient blasphemy,” Lothric said, his voice shaking. “Shall we end another?” He waved a hand toward the Kiln beyond the dark archway of the shrine. “This fire linking curse, this legacy of Lords… let it fade into nothing. Let the story have an end. We will use this bonfire and go so very far away, and we will watch it fade from a distance, safe from any pleading from the Pillars, safe even from our father, and we will wait for the Dark. We will see something new.”

Fear gripped at him; Lothric did not know if Lorian dared consider such a heretical thing when he had been fully prepared to die for the kingdom’s sake. He shivered and leaned forward, peering down at Lorian’s face for any sign of a reaction.

Lorian tried to speak, but he could not.

 _This was less for the kingdom, and more for you_ , he wanted to say.

 _If you wish not to link the fire, then I will follow you_ , he wanted to say.

 _Though I may never tell you a story again, I will be glad to finally stay and be a defender_ , he wanted to say.

But he could not, so he only smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm playing very fast and loose with the Lore for the sake of Drama but my goals here were to  
> -explore what exactly could spur Lothric into not linking the fire when every aspect of his life had been pushing him towards it  
> -explore what mechanics would lead to this 'sharing of the curse' that left Lorian mute and injured independent of his fight with the demon prince  
> -explore oceiros a bit beyond 'wow this guy sucks'-- obviously he's still quite awful, and if he ever dared to look past his perceived weakness and believe in lothric for like 5 seconds, it all probably would have been fine. but he doubts, and he overplans, and that ruins him. and also to make the impact of him claiming that he will not give ocelotte up, for that is all that he has linked to the fact that he forced himself to see his other kids as no more than kindling.  
> -also to explore the proto-pontiff being a duplicitous yet charming scumbag.  
> -Also wanted to end the story before the plotline of DS3 because obviously the Ashen One will come for their asses and it turns out that Lorian didn't even completely defeat the Demon Prince but don't worry about it.  
> -as always, thanks for reading and i hope you enjoyed!


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